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Like my car running out of gas in the street in front of a gas station, Iv once again found myself in a lucky twist of fate or the cruelest joke ever, I’m boning The Dude Next Door. As a friend and former colleague of mine, I tried keeping myself away from what would be another regrettable decision. But what’s one more bad decision in a sea of thousands? One night I accidentally tripped, stumbled, double back flipped, salchowed, and fell into my neighbor’s bed. Somehow all my clothes came off in the process and that was that.

Now the most obvious perk of this arrangement is the convenience factor. Whether you’re into some ATM (azz 2 mouth), DTA (down to analingus), or a good old dead fish missionary style bone, convenient sex is like a low grade bottom shelf margarita from the rustic Mexican voodoo rape den restaurant down the street from me, even when it’s bad, it’s good.

Nothing a little Cover Girl can't fix.

Geographically, my walk of shame has been reduced to a few meager pavement squares. Which is fucking great, A. because after living in white suburbia for most of my existence on this planet, my neighborhood is downright scary. Not only do people not even have driveways with Volvos in them, but the drug dealers aren’t even rich college kids with too much money and too little to do. Today I risked my precious life chasing a dog that was in the street to save it from getting caught by China Wok and turned into Beef and Broccoli. An extra block’s walk in this town could lead me straight into the clutches of someone asking for money, or worse, my iPhone B. After a long night of chugging vodka waters (vodka sodas are for fatties. ew.), looking like a cross between the Crypt Keeper and a pile of dead weave carcasses is bound to happen. Basically, a dime minus nine. Instead of letting him see me as a hot mess with a face not even a mother could love, it’s SO easy to sneak home for a predawn makeup touch up Extreme Makeover then stealthily crawl back into bed.

Not having to play the Not Caring Game is an added bonus. When you live next door to someone, there’s really no fucking point. Carrying on the charade that your life is busy and jam packed with activities and social events is virtually impossible. I.e. when your special friend runs into your roommate and she blows your cover that you’re out with friends. Instead she tells him the cold hard truth that you’re at home. Watching Lifetime movies. Eating Cheetos. In your bath robe. With your retainer in. Luckily this works both ways because avoiding me becomes harder to do than stopping the demise of the modern day Titanic, aka BBM.

Now not playing the Not Caring Game does not mean a certain amount of undetected spying goes unwarranted. Like most things, the intricacies of giving someone enough space who lives a baby’s breath away elude me. Finding out what girls I heard coming over last night at 2am becomes an intricate game of 21 questions with more skill than the Behavior Analysis Unit in Criminal Minds.

Of course, I’m stuck with the unsettling paranoia that there is no escape from each other. When things go inevitably sour, unfortunately all I can do is make an 11:11 wish and hope he’ll spontaneously combust and go away forever. That once prime piece of real estate for weeknight anger bangs has suddenly become a 5 bedroom concrete reminder of my inability to convince someone I’m more than just a stone cold weirdo. Luckily, my deck is within perfect range for throwing shit off of it. Lady Karma is a vengeful mistress and she will be dishing out payback in the form of month old tofu splattered all over a certain doorstep.

Annie Walker: perfecting the art of I Just Woke Up This Way

In the event that something embarrassing happens like you wet the bed, have a cavernous genny cave, or accidentally got your nuva ring sucked out, be prepared for these things to be aired in the open to his roommates, friends, and fellow neighbs. Especially if you’re telling your friends he has a small peen in hopes they wont try and cross pollinate the same flower. In short, enjoy your fleeting glimpses of happiness now before shit gets real weird. Brush up on your Not Caring Game sparknotes when you have a moment from pretending you’re busy or BYOB dinners. Look forward to things like the release of Hunger Games, Day Glow, getting your period and celebrating another month you made it without getting knocked up, and of course, the Holy Grail of all debauchery in the month of March thanks to my people getting invaded by snakes or some shit and for being alchies; St Patties day.

I love pretending to be really, really busy…which is wholly ironic since the majority of my lifestyle is based on not doing work, not giving a shit, and being hungover. But, be it walking around campus pretending to be texting, pretending to not have to pretend to be texting since I’m too busy to give anyone my time, the ubiquitous red “busy” gchat status, never answering a call on the first attempt, or furiously typing on a computer musing the performance of doing something productive, I do everything possible to make it appear that I am really fucking important and completely strapped for time.

Too busy to be at this bar.

In actuality, 9 times out of 10, I actually am busy…doing dumb shit. In between the two hours I spend on Pinterest, the 7 hours I spend on twitter, and the couple seconds I glance at facebook, I don’t have time to do homework, respond to emails, or call my mom back. The trick is to do all of these things with a look of feigned concentration and furrowed brows like your seconds away from discovering a cure for cancer. That way, people will think you’re really busy and not approach you. If they do, well, give them a look of disgust like they fucking just crop dusted you with liquid aids and told you they believe in waiting until marriage.

Alas, inbetween the time I spend deciding what (not) to eat, what to wear, and who to ignore, I end each work day utterly exhausted. So, of course I have to ask myself, why the fuck do I spend most of my time thinking of ways to appear to busy instead of just interacting with the world? Because being a girl who isn’t busy is available, and a girl who is available is desperate, and being desperate is the basically the unbetchiest thing next to a non-diet supermarket generic soda.

Being a girl by nature, there is some amount of desperation woven into our genome. We are desperate to have bitchin weekend plans, desperate to find a sugar daddy, desperate to get by while doing the least amount of work possible, desperate to go to the bar without paying a red cent, and eventually, desperate to get wifed up and sadly, procreate and ruin our skinny ass bodies (were fucking masochists). While girls may harbor these feelings, true betches know that wearing your heart on your sleeve is just as smart as wearing your heart on your sleeve…it fucking isn’t. I’ve learned in the few instances that my deep seeded feelings of need for attention and acceptance rise to the surface, its better to beat them back down with a good dose of the “I don’t fucking cares.” Don’t have weekend plans? Who cares, I was planning on shopping and going to yoga all weekend anyway. Single again this year? Whatever, my dad gave me his credit and I’m going to hook up with townies and degenerates all weekend long… then sob about it. Constantly pretending to be busy is the highest, and most effective pedestal a betch can place herself on – no one knows what the hell you’re up to, but everyone wants to be doing it too.

Even after that very introspective look at my psyche, maybe it simply boils down to the fact I’m awkward as fuck and don’t like to communicate to anyone without a cell phone in my hand or not behind the glare of a computer screen. But speaking of being busy…looks like I’ve been neglecting my Farmville farm for the last 3 years so it’s probably time I get back to that.

So, we did it. Another Valentine’s Day came and went, and today I am just as single as I was yesterday, and the day before. Oh fucking well. Since I’m not in highschool, I’ve passed the “I’m wearing black today in protest!” stage of my life, and entered into the “bottle of champagne for 1″ phase of my life.

Every rose has its thorn, and I hope this one is laced with AIDS. Happy Valentines!

It’s only slightly more self-destructive/attention whoring. I made it through the majority of the day with only limited suicidal ideations and didn’t weep to Adele’s 21 so I really considered in a rave success. Luckily all 7 packages I ordered off Amazon for myself not so coincidentally arrived on Valentine’s, so I have tricked my doorman and building into thinking I am the most desired woman this side of the Mississippi. +10 for me, but -2 because it’s still kind of pathetic.

But by circa 10:00pm, my facebook wall was just being absolutely sodomized by pictures of flowers, candy and engagements (BARF) from girls boyfriends/husbands/pimps and enough was enough. Every girl has a breaking point, and considering my existing emotional damage has left some pretty deep cracks, I couldn’t deal with it anymore. If I wanted to look at pictures of roses all day, I’d move back to New Jersey and spend a day in the Ed Hardy tshirt outlet or re-watch the Rock of Love Bus, Season 3. Something had to be done. Since I’m a brat, I’ve been begging my parents for Range Rover for the past couple of months, and while I think I am starting to wear them down, negotions are still on the table aka I don’t fucking have it yet. But my extreme rich bitch request was the perfect set up for this move I am about to tell you about. In order to upstage all these stupid 1-800-FLOWERS posts, I uploaded a picture of a tan Range Rover sitting in a driveway, with the caption “Truly Happy Valentines Day to me! Thanks Dad, Love You.” Upload button…Click.

I just sat back, twiddled my thumbs for a minute, and let the public outcry begin. I shit you not, within ten minutes, I was inundated with calls, texts, and messages, all to the effect of “wow, you fucking bitch. Jealous.” It even got my mostly off an on again special friend to text me on Valentine’s Day, which I am sure he was avoiding talking to me like the plague (cant say I blame him). He said, “Wow, if you got that, I would seriously kill myself.” Glad he knows exactly how I feel after every time I bone him…but I digress. After an hour or so of silence on my part and gloating in my revelry, I decided that while the dream was nice, the jig was up and it was time to clear the air. My expertly crafted response was as followed:

JayZ in the Range, crazy and deranged

1. That’s not even my house, mines bigger. 2. This car is like a 2008, ew. 3. I like my cars like everything else, white, duh. 4. I wanted to post something slightly more voyeuristic than all the flowers I saw on my newsfeed today, and 5. HAPPY VDAY SUCKERS.

Everything I write on Facebook is certifiable gold regardless, but I really outdid myself with that comment. Of course it got a million likes, which is an internet measurement of love, and it just reaffirmed to myself that no one could love me as much as I love myself so it totally makes sense I’m single. So another year has come and gone, still single, and still without Range Rover, but oddly enough, not bitter. What’s the take away of this story, you ask? Whenever you witness a parade thats not dedicated to you, you not only rain on it, but you have your own, bigger and better parade one street over. You hire Ceelo Green to sing your praise, glitter coated unicorns to pull your float down the street, and instead of beads, you throw out platinum ipods to your obsessed minions standing on the street. Maybe the opinion I have for myself is delusional, but so is the idea of half of these couples making to St. Patrick’s Day.

My college roommate is still one of my best friends, but I knew that our love was real the first February of our friendship during our freshman year. She decided that during Black History Month, (“BHM”) that she would decide to be nice and stop making my life a daily torturous hell. On February 1st, she left a hand decorated bottle of Jergen’s Body Lotion at my door to keep my ashy skin moisturized and warm my ice cold heart. In retrospect, one would think that was totally racist, but I used that whole bottle of lotion so I guess I’m pretty grateful. She’s still kind of a bitch though.

Lisa Turtle. The head token betch in charge.

People sometimes ask me what its like to be black. Usually I respond with a blank stare and glazed over eyes because out of all the subjects I am an expert at, this is one I know nothing about. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m not that good at being black. Some call it being an oreo, but I call it just being me. So fucking what, I like the Jonas Brothers, yoga, crying over stupid shit, MTV, and not having a bunch of full grown fetuses ruining my life? So what if I like dayglow, country music, lox cream cheese, Twilight, watching JShore, and boning white dudes? Pretty sure all anacondas feel the same in the dark so who cares if I like mine vanilla in flavor? I’m pretty sure they’re less calories than chocolate so get off me.

But really, I guess I should take a hard reflection on my life and answer the question, what is it like to be black? Well, let me debunk some myths for you. I can sunburn. I learned this shit the hard way – but 4 hours on the beach and many 3rd degree seeping burns on my body later, I realized considering my luck, I’m a prime candidate for skin cancer. I know my dad. He’s nice and rich and I like him for that. I think Tyler Perry is annoying too. Not much more needs to be said on that.

But I mean, being black overall is pretty cool. I think affirmative action has worked in my favor, I can make people uncomfortable pretty quickly by declaring things are racist (example, Friend: Hey TB, do you like vanilla or chocolate ice cream? Me: WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU ASK THAT YOU RACIST BITCH, but no I prefer strawberry, thanks), I never have to go tanning, and I’m generally the only black betch around. I like being novel. And of course, with every perk, there’s a downside. Flesh toned band-aids are never my flesh tone, getting my hair done takes forever, black dudes think I’m a stuck up bitch (true), and not liking basketball is like an offense to my race.

So what’s the moral of this story? Absolutely nothing. Like obviously BHM is for people to talk and learn about slavery, Rosa Parks, the underground railroad, Aunt Jemima, MLK, Nelson Mandela and all those bonerjams that changed history and made America a better place for all my toasted almond brethren roaming the earth. So, to celebrate the mocha chocolata in your life give this video a looksie and do everything in it…because a token black betch is only as good as the white betch she’s friends with.

Letting a betch bring her own booze to a restaurant is like Satan giving me a truckload of gasoline and leaving me in charge of the 6th circle of hell: things are going to get lit up. Moderation is clearly a term that escapes me, especially when planning for a BYOB dinner. Of course I need a bottle of Carlo de Rossi, a handle of tequila and a carafe of sparking Andre…all for myself. It’s go time.

always starts like this...

Since I am given the freedom to bring my own booze, it’s like a personal challenge to the world to how drunk I can get. Generally speaking, at this post grad state of my life, binge drinking is usually frowned upon and considered a part of an unhealthy lifestyle. But when coupled with binge eating, even the prudest abstainers of the jungle juice will join in the libations and eat and drink with uninhibited merriment and joy. Now I get why Jesus was so hellbent on turning water into wine wherever he went. Now that’s a man I cant wait to party with.

The most mortifying moment is when the waitress offers to open your bottle of wine just to realize it’s a twist off. (In comparison, it’s not that bad. After doing the walk of shame 15 blocks, Halloween morning/the day of the NYC Marathon, after being dressed in JUST a unitard a la Lady Gaga in Poker Face, it puts things in perspective). If you’re in a classy establishment (read, more than $7 per entree), that corkage fee still seems to apply to wine that you have to twist off. Just another way the man is trying to hold us down.

The best thing about going to a BYOB dinner is the fact that while you’re drinking yourself into a dizzying oblivion, you’ll probably also be puking as soon as the clock strikes 12, so eat all the salmon sashimi you can because it won’t count! Basically it’s like they are negative calories. More effort coming up than going down, but don’t even pretend you don’t love it. BYOB dinners are particularly encouraged if you’re one of those poor souls in Weight Watchers. It’s -2 points a meal.

Going out to dinner with your betch friends is all well and good, but as most things are, anything is better with a little lottle booze in the mix. Acquaintances walk in the restaurant and you suddenly find yourself running to embrace them like a POW embracing American soil, while in your sober life if you saw them, you’d most likely grab your phone and start texting yourself just to avoid talking to them.

and always ends like this. Narcapoopsy

Foes become friends, friends become besties, and boyfriends become exes. Everyone’s drinking, laughing and shit talking, and it sneaks up on you, but you soon realize everyone is yelling at each other in the resturant. Not even in a mean way, just in that, alcohol inhibited lack of volume control way. Ya know, when you’re having a good fucking time. Since that box of white wine you’re crushing is cutting through you like a diamond glazed dildo, you head to the bathroom. Getting up for the first time after a long night at the dinner booze table is always an experience. You know you live for that rush when you get up and realize, holy shit. I’m gonna black out tonight. I don’t hate it.

One of the first times WB & I celebrated our birthdays together was in a seedy, underground byob sushi resturant, where we were both entirely underage and obviously pants shittingly drunk. I’m glad neither one of us remembers that night with too much clarity, or we would have realized early on that our codependent symbiotic relationship would be the most self destructive thing in our lives six years later… but some lessons just need to be taught the hard way.

My dad is the tits. He gives me money, cars, clothes me, feeds my ego, lets me live rent free, and the sight of my tears, I get away with anything. (Hence why I cry so much). While I was home this past winter break, I became accustom to sleeping in till 12 and literally not doing anything for anyone. In effort to get me out of my bed, my dad simply came into my room, threw his credit card on my bed and said “the choice is yours.” You better bet I chose fucking right and drove my ass right to the mall… yet I digress.

oddly enough, this looks exactly like me.

As amazing as my dad is, as I round the 25th anniversary of my existence on this cruel world, I realize I have a major bone to pick with him. While I love my dad as much as my twisted little heart could love anything, I hate him. You want to know why? Because my dad is a cold hearted liar. He’s been lying to me for years, and has therefore raised me to expect dudes that will live up to the standards he taught me to have. As I get older, I kind of expected some new dude to pretty much slide right in to the role of nice guy/sugar daddy to give my real daddy a damn break from coddling my emotions and turning me into the extreme narcissist I am today , but it doesn’t look like that will be happening any time this century.For years, my dad has been telling me “you’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re special.” Etc. fucking etc. What a sicko.

I’m beautiful? I’m pretty sure I pinpointed at least 500 girls prettier than me during freshman year orientation and now they’re all engaged. Dad, either your eyes are broken or everyone else’s are.

I’m smart? While any betch with some money can go to law school, I don’t think its the accurate measure of intelligence. If I were actually smart, I would have taken the money I spent on college and used it on a fully body Heidi Montag special and bought some tits and ass. Its all about increasing the value of your real estate to attract prospective buyers.

I’m special? Lunchables on sale at Shop Rite are special. Unicorns are special. Your lovable next door neighbor with autism is special. If by special you mean getting get dicked over by assholes, nice guys, mean guys, jocks, nerds, bros, and pros alike, then yes, I’m really something else. Even those unicef kids in Africa get more love and attention than I get from the opposite sex. Puppies in the Sarah McLaughlin ads get kinder words and more soft soothing touches than I do. I’m hurting too, dammit! I want to be loved, too DAMMIT!

The only special thing about myself is the miracle that I haven’t leaped off the 100 foot high emotional precipice I have been balancing on for the past couple years as the sole member of the Lonley Hearts Club. As another Valentine’s Day and my 25th year closer to the true death approaches, I am looking for someone to blame for all of my social and emotional inadequacies. So thank you, dear father, for supporting me with your undying love and attention and for ultimately ruining my life.

One may be the loneliest number, but 25 may be the most fucking depressing. Happy bday to me.

a (1): A human, characterized by pale skin, freckles and bright red hair. “Gingers” are generally considered to be inferior to their more melanin-rich brethren, and thus deservingly discriminated against. Gingers are thought to have no souls. The condition, “gingervitis” is genetic and incurable.

Pre-Ginger-Pubebscent

Smiling because he narrowly missed the ginger gene

As a small ginger with a bowl cut and squat frame, I was what some might consider cute, or I at least had “character” as some would say. Regardless if I was an attractive child or not (although the lack of documentation of my childhood points to ugly) I was happy. No one was telling me (yet) that my genes were as toxic to pro-creation as the love child of Adolf Hitler and Paris Hilton. Once I passed the stage where my bowl-cut was complimented by my vast metal-mouth braces and I learned that over-alls were the cop-out of all clothing, I really came into my own. Although the sun was still my mortal enemy and I, along with the lovable crowd of misfits I fraternized with, thought it was appropriate for upper-class white children to wear FUBU and Phat Farm, high school was truly a delight for me. I was slutty to the point where it was socially acceptable (handys only) and my peers respected that. Then the unspeakable occurred…

The Day The Earth Stood Still: Nov 9, 2005

Face of a nation-tough break for us

The fateful day when the South Park “Ginger Kids” episode aired divided my life into two eras– ‘blissful childhood’ and ‘hate crimes.’ In the wink of a coalminer’s eye my days had become “kill the firecrotch” and my nights had become icing my gennies from being drop-kicked in the coslupus. Is it not enough that I am as pale as Voldemort on a cool winter’s night and that the sun renders my skin a blistering sore? I believed (as I’m sure the rest of my people did) that it was a phase and this phenomenon of hate would cease, yet it continues to grow with phenomenal force. All members of the human race feel they are superior to gingers. For instance, in my collegiate years I recall strolling past 3 townies who honestly made the art of the rat-tail look easy while simultaneously sporting mustaches that I must say were…phenomenal and had clearly not been grown in haste. They spotted me and found it appropriate to scream “Does the carpet match your pubes!!!?” and then viciously high fived each other- nearly knocking over their moonshine and the coolers they were using as thrones. I then walked away- blushing at their glowing compliment- because it was the sweetest thing anyone had said to me in five years.

My people and I have learned that we can no longer fight it. I have now resigned myself to sending redheaded sluts to the doodz at the bar who regard my flammable locks as an affront to the continuity of the human race, and marking “minority” on my census

On the bright(ish) side, gingers are the descendants of vikings. And although we may not be the most attractive or have the best role models (pictured), if we hear a cleverly crafted ginger joke, we will laugh and then block our gennies from being punted– because if you can’t take a joke-then fuck you.